


a love letter to the planet

by wayfared



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 11:59:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayfared/pseuds/wayfared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of metaphors, because Harry is positive that Louis is the earth upon which he stands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a love letter to the planet

**Author's Note:**

> translated into spanish [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2795090)!! thank you so much serendipia for doing this!

 

If anything, Louis is the sun.

But being 92,960,000 miles away, Harry supposes he can make a compromise

Because the grass between his toes

still resembles tufts of fly-away wispy hair -

If it were green

 

Around five pm always, Louis is a vibrant city street

He is excited pedestrians weaving in and out of shop lined streets

chatting animatedly about this and that and nothing and

everything in between and “ _Are you listening, babe?”_

Harry will nod along silently, smiling at his very own city block,

racing and zigzagging through the words tumbling out of his mouth

Not just any city, though. Harry feels he might be New York

He is curiosity lining the pavement, exploring cramped quarters

His fingers reach out like skyscrapers to touch the sky, to examine what it beholds.

There is enough eagerness in his Louis to spill onto Times Square,

where billboard eyes light up bright and jubilant

Harry wishes to bottle the gleam, hide it for eternity

So that if there is ever a point where the electricity goes out,

and the city block boy blinks into descending darkness,

he can spoon feed the blaze until curiosity ignites once more

and there is a fire burning once again at the center of Louis' street lamp heart  
  


If Louis is the San Andreas fault line,

then Harry is balanced precariously at the edge,

one earthquake away from falling, falling

between the cracks of his ribs and gone, gone

forever  
  


Thousands of miles away, Louis will yawn in waves crashing heavy around his tongue

The sand snug around his shoulders, his eyes will fall closed

Like foam rolling down the beach and away, away

Away from the marram grass fanning silky cheeks

Harry will card his hands through palm fronds as the tide moves in behind heavy lids

And Louis will wrap his arms like seaweed around his waist,

because the storms are far away right now

There is only the delicate _woosh_ of salty ocean air breathed,

 _in and out_ between sleepy lips

Harry will gaze down, because here is his own soft sea

and here is where he will lay, tucked into the folds of coral reefs

made from skin stretched over coral bones

 

If Louis is Niagara Falls,

Harry is drowning, moments away from the brink

one desperate thrash from being part of the 700 thousand gallons of water

toppling over the curve of the waterfall every second

And he will surely die at the bottom,

but the jagged rocks lining it are Louis' loving arms

and Harry is gone, gone

forever

 

Sundays are Harry's favorite.

Mornings are lazy, and when Louis pads into the kitchen near noon,

he is the calm of rain drizzling through the Amazon rainforest.

Feet drag lazy puma prints across the muddy forest floor

and breathe expires in time with the rhythm of wind through leafy canopies.

Here is where Louis claims Harry a tree,

resting tip toes on buttress roots,

and snakes his arms like vines across the bark of his chest.

Harry thinks he is more than happy to give sunlight to this jungle boy,

If Louis asked, Harry would present him the world.

But that position is already taken, so he will just have to settle for the universe instead

 

If Louis is the Grand Canyon,

then Harry is an adventurer, scaling gorgeous maroon rocks,

and one misplaced step away from plummeting to his doom.

On the way down, he thinks that if there is such a last sight

as the vast, stunning dents and curves of Louis' body,

ringed with deep reds and fiery yellows and dazzling oranges

then he does not mind at all, and he is gone, gone

forever  
  


Sometimes, Louis is a sheer cliff.

He will press bruises like falling shingles into the hollows of Harry's hips,

and Harry will think that his entire body is a shallow foothold,

and close is not close enough and will never be close enough.

But there is nothing more beautiful than the view of a thousand feet up,

and if Louis is the view, he is the parched valley of a desert.

He is the unforgiving heat radiating off stale sand

and the cacti that occupy it.

And Harry knows that even though he wants nothing more than to offer his desert boy a sip of water,

He is just a lost wanderer, swallowed whole by the needs of a torrid landscape.

There are prickly pears scraping at the hollows of his neck,

And his grip is slipping off the steep cliff face,

But he is trusting enough of the earth beneath his fingers

to be certain that it will hold him up until the very last moment

And he is quite sure the fire licking from underneath barren skin

is composed only of love

 

If Louis is the Himalayas,

Harry is a Sherpa; he's scaled these mountains many a time

But he will never get sick of the tremendous beauty his mountain boy beholds

And maybe one trip, he will lose his sight in a blizzard

and slowly shrivel up on a bed of flurry.

The snow is Louis' hold, and his smile is brisk on Harry's lips

Heaven is Louis' warm touch, and he is gone, gone

forever  
  


Louis is the calm scent of a serene meadow

Harry knows this, because even in the deepest nights,

there is still the smell of Louis shrouding him,

and Louis' fingers feel like tendrils of sweet grass feathering his face

It is summer, because Louis _is_ summer,

and he's also the swarms of gnats hanging in the air like stars to a night sky

It should be suffocating, because humidity crowds itself down Harry's throat

He doesn't mind, though; Louis' the gusts that glide over his skin

as he settles in a crib of narcissi and violets and springy dew-dotted grass

that remind Harry of what it's like to comb fingers through wisps of cocoa bean fringe

Fringe that belongs to his city block, soft sea,

jungle boy, mountain boy,

desert boy, summer boy

 

So if anything, Louis is the sun

But if his eyes were the blue, blue snow atop glorious mountain peaks,

then her light can be seen reflected there

And that, Harry thinks, is enough

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://ziamhub.tumblr.com) / if you like it, kudos are greatly appreciated! thank you!


End file.
